Accidentally Married to the Billionaire 2(25)

She kissed him, pressing his hands back on either side of his head to hold him down. He grinned and let her. Marj kissed and licked and caressed him, exploring every inch of his body and rendering him desperate. When he was near frenzy, his pulse racing and eyes dark, she climbed on him astride, lowering herself down his length and taking him. Brandon bucked up inside her immediately and she let him grip her hips, hold her steady as he pounded his way to release, her own hands between her legs, stroking herself to the very cusp of pleasure.

As she rocketed over the edge with her own fondling, his powerful onslaught driving her mad, she cried out his name. She wanted to cover her mouth with her hands, embarrassed that she would think only of him at such a moment. With any other man, she would have been thinking of Scott Eastwood, Channing Tatum, some muscled actor with wry masculine perfection. But this was all Brandon Cates. No one else had ever consumed her so. She had never, not once, called out a man’s name at her peak.

It made her turn away from him, the embarrassment, the knowledge that, even if he didn’t know it meant anything, she knew it. And it was nothing but bad news. She rolled over and yanked the covers over herself. He kissed her bare shoulder and she smiled.

“Did I overwhelm you?”

“Yeah, wore me out completely. I guess I’m not on Dubai time yet. I’m going to crash,” she said, knowing he wanted to get to his work.

“Okay. Good night, sweetie. If you need me, I’ll be in the office.”

“This place has an office?”

“This place? It has everything,” he said with a chuckle.

He left the room, switching off the light for her so she could rest. Damn him for being considerate that way. Marj rubbed her hands over her face, blinked hard and squinted her eyes tightly shut. She was going to go to sleep, dammit, and not think about him or dream about him. Not at all.

Except she did dream about him.





Chapter 10




In her dream, it was all too real.

Brandon Cates, in jeans and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms and thick wrists, his hair roughed up in the wind. He held out his hand to her to help her over some rocky terrain and down to a beach. She took his hand, the sizzle of sparks actually visible when they touched. A long dreamy white dress whipped around her bare legs in the wind, some kind of sundress. He guided her to the warm sand and they settled on a checkered blanket. He poured a chilled chardonnay into a glass for her, and she sipped the crisp, buttery liquid with a satisfied smile.

In the dream, Brandon kissed her neck. He held her close and whispered to her. She could not quite make out the words above the rustle of the ocean breeze, the tinkle of wind chimes someplace nearby. She knew she was in love, and that he wanted to be with her. She knew they were someplace beautiful and private. She reached for the picnic basket—where had it come from?—and pulled out a birthday gift for him, tied in a silver ribbon. He opened the long box and his face was transformed by joy. He scooped her into his arms, into his lap and kissed her a hundred times, her lips, her face, her hair. She laughed, teary at the same time, so perfectly happy.

In the dream he held her and kissed her and she knew he couldn’t believe it, their good luck, their happiness. She felt so replete, so perfectly wonderful, as if she had alone been the agent of his pure joy. Opening her eyes to the sun-dappled afternoon, she glimpsed the contents of the box she’d given him. In bright blue tissue paper was nestled a white plastic stick, something like a thermometer, with two blue lines in the window. She had given Brandon a positive pregnancy test for his birthday. He was turning thirty-one and becoming a father and she, his adored wife, was the mother of his child.

Marj woke up from the dream, her face wet with tears. She threw off the covers, stalked across the room and uncapped the decanter. She took a drink right from the crystal bottle, the burn of Scotch tracing its way down her throat into her consciousness. Of all stupid things, she was dreaming about picnics and presents and having a baby. Her subconscious should have gone all out, she thought cynically, and had her wear a diamond tiara while a shower of rose petals trailed all around them, happy townspeople clapping and perhaps a violin or two playing in the background.

Disgusted with her commonplace, sappy dreams, she took another drink, coughed, and hoped she wouldn’t vomit from her drink. She’d needed it to clear the cobwebs from her stupid, hopeless romantic, impossible brain.

She used to dream about cars, beautiful expensive foreign ones, often driven by equally exotic and wealthy men in suits. Now all it took was one guy with his sleeves rolled up, one specific guy giving her a handkerchief or putting a blanket over her or touching her hair and she was gone. Completely over the moon over the littlest things, things she’d never realized were missing from her life. She had nothing but contempt for her late blooming sentimentality. She dug a t-shirt out of her suitcase and started doing sit-ups. Then she did some lunges and squats. Exercising always helped her focus. And she needed to focus on what she had (more than she ever dreamed of) and what she intended to do (be pleasant for five more months and then split with the money and her heart intact). Anything that ran counter to the goal had to be cut out. So, basically, the less time she spent with her spouse, the healthier and happier she’d be in the long run.